


lay with me (like flowers for a grave)

by Metronomeblue



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: Awkward First Times, Domestic, Emotional Sex, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Gentle Kissing, Gentle Sex, Hand Jobs, Kissing, Loss of Virginity, Love Confessions, Nipple Play, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Unspecified Setting, almost forgot that one, do I look like a woman who can explain herself, kind of, listen!! I just wanted to write something soft!!, neither of them knows how to have friends anyway, this is mainly to ward off the specter of a horrifying idea I didn't want to have
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-04 22:39:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16798450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metronomeblue/pseuds/Metronomeblue
Summary: Hector is an awkward virgin and has a very pleasant time. that's it. that's all there is.





	lay with me (like flowers for a grave)

**Author's Note:**

> Blame Syd, blame me, blame Netflix for handing me the softest idea in the world. Can't say I did it justice, in the end, but I tried so. Here you have it.

The sun set early in winter, and the difference was even more visible in the woods where you lived. The trees darkened from warm brown to slick, shadowy black and as the fog descended, the light faded to a weak glimmer on the ground. The woods frightened most people anyway, haunted by undead animals whose eyes glowed blue in the darkness, but it was even worse come winter, when snow carpeted the ground and the blue fire of death inside of them barely warmed their breath enough to steam. You didn’t mind. You liked the woods. You liked the animals. You liked the winter, the snow and the quiet and the soft darkness that glowed blue with moonlight.

You liked Hector.

He was quiet when he came in, but he always was. You looked up to see him shaking snow from his boots, several small animals clustered around his feet. They rose up, pawing at him and making small noises. Making sure he didn’t step on any of their fragile, already broken bodies was a task, but he managed it. He looked to where you sat beside the fire, and when you smiled at him, he offered a small smile of his own in return. He slipped off his boots, and, trailed by a small crowd of reanimated pets, padded tiredly to his room. He didn’t say a word to you, nor you to him, but speech wasn’t always necessary. 

You went back to your book, listening to the muffled, muted sounds of his movement in the next room. You weren’t able to focus on the pages, but you persisted anyway. You didn’t want to eavesdrop, didn’t want to imagine the possibilities of what he was doing. You didn’t want to think of him stripped down to the soft shirt and loose trousers he wore to sleep. You didn’t want to imagine him reading, just a few feet away, or curled up in his bed with a light-eyed fox or Cezar. You didn’t want to imagine all the vulnerable, private things he might do away from your prying eyes. It felt… uncomfortable, in a way. As if even by thinking them you were violating some soft, sacred thing. You had lingered in his home too long, perhaps. Assumed some piece of it was your own, assumed a connection when there wasn’t one. Even so, something settled in your chest at the knowledge that he was home safe. That in itself gave you pause, and you looked uneasily at his boots, the way the firelight flickered over them, the cat with one eye lapping at the rapidly-melting snow beneath them. 

“I should leave,” you told the cat. It turned to look at you, blinking slowly, then walked across the floor to where you were sitting. You reached out, as if to touch, and it pushed itself down your arm, dragging its entire bony, cold spine over your skin. It settled into your lap, curled up like a perfect circle in the cradle of your knees and calves. It lapped at your elbow with a tongue like splintered wood, and shook its bony face. “Well, aren’t you sweet,” you teased it, stroking a knuckle between its ears. “Are you going to miss me?” You asked, more softly, still petting it. “Are any of you going to notice when I go?” You didn’t hear Hector’s door open, but you heard him speak.

“You’re leaving?” Hector’s voice was bruised with hurt, his face almost blank. You met his eyes hesitantly, biting your lip. 

“Not tonight.” You didn’t have to say the rest for him to understand. He frowned, brow furrowed with what could have been sadness or irritation.

“But you  _ are _ leaving,” he said flatly, no longer a question.

“Don’t you want me to?” You looked down, unable to meet his eye. “You like being alone out here. And you never meant for me to stay, I know that.” You kept your eyes down, fixed on the cat, who had begun purring rustily under your hand. “I don’t mean to impose.”

“You aren’t,” he said quickly, softly. His voice was closer, and you looked up to find him only a few steps away, shoulders low and frown wiped from his face. There was a quiet hope in his eyes, in the faintest smile in the corners of his mouth. “You can stay,” he said. “Please stay.” He looked at you with glimmering eyes, pale blue-gold in the firelight, and you couldn’t bring yourself to refuse him.

“Alright,” you whispered. “I’ll stay.”

“As long as you like,” he told you, smiling fully. It was beautiful. He was beautiful, and it took more self-restraint than you would have liked to admit not to tell him so, not to let it slip like prayer from your mouth.

“Alright,” you said instead. 

You stood, cradling the cat in your arms. It squeaked, and you laid it down on the floor, mindful of its bony legs. You couldn’t help but bite back a smile as it flicked its tail at you. Hector’s eyes were warm on the back of your neck, a welcome weight, and you turned back to him without thinking. You met his gaze again, and your heart almost stopped at the softness in his face. One arm was outstretched, bent and loose. Uncertain.

“May I?” He asked, voice earnest, low, as if to keep from startling you. You stepped into his reach, tilting your face up to his. He found his arm hovered, extended, beside your head, and, awkwardly, he drew it back a little.

“Oh, yes,” you said, nodding. He reached up more closely, his hands drifting over the sides of your face gently, carefully, as if too heavy a touch might crack your skull. His fingers moved absentmindedly, stroking your cheekbones, your temples, the soft sweep that faded out under your eyes. He didn’t even seem to notice, gaze fixed on your own. He leaned down over you, slowly, as if you were a skittish deer.

“Please?” he asked, and you nodded again, rising up on your toes to meet him. It was a short kiss, brief but deep, and you could feel the softness of his lips on yours even after he pulled away again. You’d kissed before, once, chaste and lonely. There was nothing behind it from him, no want or need beyond curiosity. He had pulled away from it wide-eyed and frowning, almost afraid to look you in the eye. You hadn’t asked about it, either, both of you continuing as best you could as if it had never happened. You hadn’t expected him to try again, expected him to remain as closed-off and cold as possible, but he hadn’t. This was nothing like that. You could feel his heart in his mouth, soft and fearful, the anticipation wired into his hands. “Would-” he began, before closing his mouth, troubled. He shook his head, silent.

“Would I what?” You prodded gently. The faint flush on his cheeks grew deeper despite his efforts to appear unaffected. He looked away, biting his lip. “Hector?”

“Would you come to bed with me?” He asked, and though it was stilted with embarrassment and hesitation, it was still honest. The vulnerability in his face sparked an ache in your chest.

“You mean for more than sleep?” You asked, forcing your own shyness deep into your heart. He looked back at you, worry creeping into his eyes.

“I- yes,” he said, swallowing. He looked uncomfortable, unmoored, but hopeful. You felt the same.

“I’ve never-” you confessed, and he blinked at you, momentarily startled out of his own discomfort.

“No, I’ve… I haven’t either,” he admitted, and the shameful relief in both of your faces was enough to dispel your fears.

“I’d love to,” you admitted, smiling. “I don’t know-” you made a faint wave of your hands, and he smiled.

“No,” Hector agreed, and as though he had suddenly remembered, his thumbs stroked up and down the sides of your face once more. It was comforting, and you leaned forward again, your own hands finding purchase on his arms. “We’ll figure it out.”

“Is-?” You began, nodding at the table, inscribed with symbols. “Is anyone coming?”

“The door is locked,” he said, and whether he meant it to reassure you or not, you felt a sliver of relief unfurl in your chest. You were safe here, both of you. Safe and together and alone.

“And the animals?” you asked, leaning into his touch. His arms fell slowly, brushing feather-lightly along your sides.

“The rest of them are outside,” he murmured, a small, fond flicker of a smile creeping onto his face. You could feel his hands move, just a little, settling on your waist. He wasn’t reaching, or grasping. He simply held you, and you could feel the way he moved his thumbs along your skin even through the fabric of your clothes. Your whole body prickled, oversensitive to his touch. You felt starved of him, open and yearning for even the brush of his lips on yours. You could feel the difference, the intent behind this, unlike the usual brief, skittish moments of connection he sought out. He wanted to linger, you knew, and you wanted to let him. He moved his head, pressed just a little closer, his nose brushing your cheek, his hair curtaining your faces.

“Will they stay outside?” You asked quietly, mouth only a breath away from his. His smile spread, those cold, beautiful eyes softened and shy.

“I forged them,” he reminded you, pressing his forehead to yours. “It’s my will they follow.” He tilted his head, and your lips caught once more in a slow, delicate kiss. Still shy, still hesitant, but sweet. Hopeful. His lips were warm, his hands, properly set on your waist, were warm, and you felt a heated blush spread from your cheeks to the well of your stomach. You wanted- you wanted. It wasn’t something you’d ever spoken of, the two of you. You’d come together uncertain, barely even friends, and as the distance between you had closed, you’d grown fond of each other. Accustomed to the other person’s presence, voice, face. It was new for you both, each of you fallen away from humanity in a different way. Hector, especially, had struggled. Had pushed back against the urge to settle into this feeling, the warmth of another human body in a space formerly occupied only by his animals. You had slipped in, when he wasn’t looking. Had made yourself a home between the deer and the foxes, the dogs and cats and rats and birds. Blue-eyed and softhearted, all of them possessed of half-lives. And then you.

He pulled away from the kiss, breath just a little heavier, a little deeper than before. He rested his forehead on yours again, and you looked into his eyes with a rush of deep and sudden affection. 

“Come to bed,” you whispered, and he sighed happily. His hands skimmed down your hips, one falling loosely at his side while the other tangled in yours. “Hector,” you breathed, and he kissed you again, smiling into your lips.

“I like it,” he said, voice still tinted with his smile.

“Like what?”

“Hearing you say my name like that.” He pressed forward, and when your back hit the door he curled over you, into you. “Nobody’s ever said it like that before,” he whispered. You could feel his lips drag down your jawline, the gentle press of them to the rounded jut at the far end, the soft flutter of his eyelashes as he moved down to your throat. You reached up, arms shaky, and curled your hands into his hair, his soft shirt, fingertips pressed desperately to the warmth of his skin.

“Hector,” you gasped, as his mouth burned like a brand into your neck. He pulled back, eyes dark and lips slick, and kissed you again. Deeply, hungrily, he nipped at the seam of your lips, the soft width of them. He pulled back to adjust, to breathe, to press his face in close to yours and dart in for a last peck at your mouth. “Hector,” you said again, and moved your hand in his hair. Carding through the soft, curling strands to cup the back of his head, you pulled yourself away from the wall, standing on your own weight. “Should we-?”

“Yes,” he agreed, nodding. “In- in my room, I think.” He stepped back first, and your hands slid from his hair like water from the sky. He looked sadder for their loss. He moved back in, and for a moment you thought he’d kiss you again, but he only reached to open the door behind you, leaning in close enough that you could smell the magic clinging to his hands, the snow melted in his hair. He lingered, letting the door swing open, letting the doorway gape like a shadow behind you as he pressed his cheek to yours, just for a moment. “Come in,” he whispered, and the invitation warmed you even as the nervousness filled you once more. 

You’d never been in his room before. One more of those walls between you, a rule that was not a rule. A flash from before entered your mind, the image of him alone and unobserved. He reached out for you, face soft and unclouded with fear or anger or tense, solemn distance. You took his hand, your fingers curling softly into his. His gloves were a pale silver-gold, firelight dancing over the fabric and turning them shadow-soft under your hand. You turned your hand, twisting so his fingers draped over yours, and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. His whole hand twitched, and you smiled. He pulled you into his room, and you noted with a bloom of fondness that the fox, the cats, Cezar had all stayed by the fire, showing no interest in their master’s room. He reached out with his free hand, pushing the door closed behind you. Eyes fixed on your face and hand laid delicately over yours, he leaned in closely once more, the faint click of a lock seeming something final in your mind.

“We’re alone now,” you said quietly, and he smiled, pulling back. He drew you with him, your hands still clasped, and soon enough you were beside his bed. His mouth returned to yours, slow and deep. He moved like drowning man, slow enough and soft enough that it made your chest ache. He was all around you, lips hot and teeth hungry and tongue hesitant where it touched your mouth. His hand remained tied with yours, the other soft where it lifted your chin to meet him. You could only breathe heavily, heart pounding, head full of confused directions. You just breathed, the scent of him filling your lungs. The kiss broke, leaving both of you gasping, wanting, and you stepped back unthinkingly, reaching up to fumble with your dress. His hand drifted down to lay over yours.

There was something like guilt on his face, or conflict. “Do you want…” He paused, then continued, like a man making a decision. “Do you want me to help you?” You nodded, shyly, not trusting your voice. You could feel yourself buzz with anticipation, your whole body restless, but you couldn’t bring yourself to move. His face was flushed as he came closer, hands rising to your chin, cupping your face once more. He tilted your face to his and kissed your cheek, a brush of lips light and welcome, warm on your heated skin. His hands slid from your jaw, your neck, to your shoulders, the first button at the base of your throat.

His hands were unfailingly gentle on your skin, undoing each button of your overdress, pulling the fabric away as if it might hurt you if he moved too fast. It fell to the floor around you, a pool of thick fabric still warm from your body. His eyes flickered over you, taking in your figure in snatches, shy glances. You turned away from him, moving your hair away so he could reach. He ran one finger down your spine, a slow trace from where your scalp began down to the collar of your dress. He paused, then reached up.

“Hector,” you said suddenly, and his hands stopped, high at the back of your neck. “Is- is this what you want?” He was silent, hands hovering over you. “This isn’t just… you want this?” You could feel the sigh leave him, the tension in his shoulders drop as his hands moved from your neck to your shoulders.

“Yes,” he said finally, quietly, hands laying flat on the expense of your shoulders. “I want you.” He pressed a short, slow kiss to the nape of your neck, shudderingly soft. “I want you,” he repeated, earnestly, insistently. “Do you… are you sure?”

“Yes,” you said, almost too quickly, one short, breath of assent leaving you. You felt overwhelmed, almost. Too full of softness and joy and a gentle, painful urge to show him how much he meant to you. “Hector,” you said, more quietly. “I want you.” That seemed to reassure him, and he began to undress you once more. His hands moved to your neck again, unhooking the threads that tied your dress at the neck with precise, slow motions. The easy loosening of the fabric made your heart thrum higher in your chest, your head rushing a little at the realization that he would be seeing all of you. You’d be vulnerable, weak and open to him. There was a sharp moment of panic before he touched you. It was a brief hand on your back, just a light press of his fingertips to your shoulder blade as if to warn you. You couldn’t be afraid anymore. Not of him. Hector, whose hands were always gentle, whose voice remained steady and calm. Hector, who’d kissed you with a sweetness you couldn’t bare to turn from. There was nothing to fear from him. It burned in your chest, all the warmth, the fierce softness you felt for him. The bruised place in your heart that reminded you that he’d be doing the same, baring himself to your sight, your touch.

“It’ll be cold,” he warned you lowly, and the soft slide of his hands, easily pushing the fabric of your dress down your arms, the swaths of heat that followed his touch, warmed you even against the rush of cold air. Your dress halted at your elbows, fabric ruffling, pooling at the crook of your arms where you held them to your chest. You could hear Hector swallow in the silence, as if the sight of so much of you was too much for him. The winter chilled your bare back, and Hector stepped forward, offering shelter from the cold as he fumbled, nerves rising, with the tie of your belt. It took him longer, and you could feel his hands shake, but you didn’t mind. You were shaking, too.

Soon enough, you felt the familiar pressure at your waist loosen, and he reached around your waist to pull your belt away entirely. You opened your arms, allowing your sleeves to finally slip free of your elbows, allowing your dress to drop down your legs and pool over the rest of your clothes. The air hit your skin like needles, and you could feel your nipples harden in protest, your blood pool heavily between your legs despite yourself. You were so, so cold. But Hector’s arms were gentle and welcome where they twined around your shoulders, his face a sweet warmth as it pressed into your hair. You could feel the soft, worn fabric of his clothes against your skin, the silk curl of his hair where it tickled your bare shoulders. He felt stiff, almost, as though he was uncertain he was doing the right thing, but your hands wrapped around his wrists, pulling them closer, and he relaxed. Softened over you.

“You make me want to do things I don’t understand,” he murmured into your ear. You huffed a short laugh, and he pressed closer, smiling into the crown of your head. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to even touch someone before,” he admitted, a soft heat in his cheeks. “Until you.”

“Until you,” you repeated, a faint smile filling your mouth. You turned back in the loop of his arms to face him. He was looking at the ground, face full of shifty, awkward shame. You couldn’t help yourself. Your hands cupped his face, a mirror to the way his hands had felt on your skin, delicate and careful. You tilted his chin up, just a little, just enough you could meet his gaze. “Hector,” you said again, and it was honey in your mouth. “Touch me,” you whispered against his lips, reaching up to twine your hand in his. You drew it down to your hip, then up, gently following the slow curve of your waist, the rise and swell of your breast, soft and bared to his touch, and he gasped into your mouth. “Please. Please.” His other hand moved to rest on your hip, and he pressed forward enough that you could feel the warmth of his body, the heat of his skin even through his clothes. His glove, warmed by your skin, scraped the stiff flesh of your nipple. Watching you with dark eyes, he did it again, forcing a strangled exhale from your lips. His thumb moved back and forth, over and over, sensation building from titillation to true pleasure.

“More?” He asked, lips parted as he watched you sway into his hands, shake and bite your lip. You nodded, and his fingers shifted to pinch your nipple, a sharp, sweet jolt of pain that spread like static over your breast. You leaned into him, resting your weight against his chest, hands curled together by your stomach.

“Oh yes,” you breathed, and he did it again. Rolled the soft, darkened pink bud of nerves between his fingers, twisted it, tugged it gently- whatever he could see made you whimper and melt and moan. His other hand cupped your opposite breast, a mirror image, fingers digging into your flesh, lifting it enough to rub a thumb over your raw nipple, to feel the small weight of them in his hands. He was curious, transfixed by the sight of you shaking and vulnerable and yearning for his touch. You leaned back, just a little out of reach, resting your weight on your own feet and reached up to tug at the ties of his shirt. “You next,” you murmured, and he smiled, running his hands down your arms.

“Would you like to…”

“Help you?” You asked softly, not meeting his eyes. Your own smile was small, shy. “Yes.” You tried not to shake, tried to let the memory of his touch, the warmth of your body carry you. You reached for his hand, pressing another kiss to the ridges of his knuckles before you began to tug, gently, at the glove. It slid from his arm smoothly, and you smiled, content at the feeling of both of his hands bare on your body. You undid the knot at his collarbone with care. Slowly, painstakingly, because you could feel him tensing even as he murmured his assent. The ties unraveled easily, but you pulled them out one by one, letting his shirt open slowly, letting it hang for a moment as you pressed your hands to his chest. One hand curled around yours, uneasy and hesitant. You looked up to meet his eyes, full of a strange uncertainty. “Hector,” you began, and he shook his head. “We don’t have to.”

“No,” he said, thumb moving absently over your fingers, still pressed over his heart. “It’s not that.”

“I-”

“Thank you,” he said quietly. His grip tightened, some of the fear leaving his eyes. He blinked the rest away and then released you, sighing. “Thank you.”

“For what?” You asked, a half-smile rising on your face. Your fingers spread, thumbs stroking over his skin as his tended to do to yours. 

“For being kind,” he whispered. Your smile faded, became something sad.

“You deserve kindness,” you told him, hands sliding up to part his collar. He watched you with undisguised bewilderment, a flush of embarrassment rising on his cheeks as you slid his shirt from his shoulders. It caught at his wrists, and you tugged it from them gently, letting it fall to the floor like your own clothes. His flush spread down his chest, and though he looked away, self-conscious and nervous, you still traced a finger down the center of his chest. “You’re beautiful,” you said softly, finally putting voice to your thoughts, and he swallowed.

“I’m not-” He let his voice fade at your look. There was something blazing within you, not quite anger, not quite sadness. 

“You are,” you insisted ruefully. “You are to me.” He shook his head, but didn’t bother trying to argue this time. It still ached. You pressed your hand to his chest, just enough force to remind him it was there. He only sighed, and you tugged him back towards the bed. Sitting on it, you began to pull at the laces of his trousers, as loose and soft as his shirt. He bit his lip when your hand brushed over his groin, letting out a low, choked noise.

You undid his trousers, pushing them from his thin hips with clever fingers. Naked, now, vulnerable, you could see all of him. He was beautiful, truly, all soft, golden skin and pale, silver hair. The slopes of thin, refined muscle and the delicate curves and planes of his face. The contradiction in the shy turn of his eyes and the wet, half-hard cock between his legs. He stood before you, looking anywhere but at your face, and you felt a deep and unswayable need to hold him. You reached out, arms held up and face soft with sadness and love. He stepped into your reach. You swept your hands down his sides, as he’d done for you, before reaching between his legs for the raised, hardening pillar of his cock. It was silk-soft in your grasp, skin loose and flesh firm, and you closed your hand around the shaft of it, tugging just a little.

“Oh-” he grunted, half a gasp and half a groan. “Oh, that’s-” You moved your hand, your fingers wrapped around him, and his knees buckled. He pressed his forehead into your shoulder, leaning heavily on the bed. His hands knotted in the sheets, shaking as his legs bent him into a kneel. “Please,” he begged. “Plea-” You leaned forward to kiss his forehead, your other arm wrapping around the back of his head to bring him closer. He whined into your skin, your strokes light and slow, fingers curling around the base of him, rubbing over the soft, wet head of his cock. Your fingers were slick, and you could smell him on your own skin, sex and salt together. He shook and moaned, every stroke thickening him more, darkening his flesh from pink to violet, dark and needy.

“Shhh,” you hushed him, pulling back to kiss his cheek. He leaned into your touch, rising. You crawled back on the bed, and he settled over you, loose and wanting, hair damp and curling in your hands when you reached for it.

“I-” he breathed, and you could feel the slick heat of him bobbing at the crux of your thighs. “Can I-?” 

“Yes,” you sighed, shifting under him, letting his cock fall between your thighs. “Just-” he reached down, hesitant fingers slipping lightly over your folds, parting them clumsily. “Just be gentle,” you pleaded, curling your arms around his shoulders, his neck, hands knotting in his hair. “Be gentle.”

“Yes,” he said painfully, looking at you with wounded, hazy blue eyes. “Always.” His hand moved to his cock, lining it up with your slit. You could feel the heat of him, so much more intimidating now that he was at your entrance. “Tell me,” he said, lips dragging sloppily over your jaw. You shifted, opening your legs so he was cradled in your thighs, took a long breath. Breathed in the sweet scent of him, the certainty that he’d be kind.

“Alright,” you said, and your arms trembled around his neck. “Now.”

It hurt. Not overwhelmingly, not even terribly, but you could feel it- the ache, the stretch, the faint sensation of something splitting inside of you. You couldn’t help but cry out, a short, sharp gasp of a noise that stalled him. He paused, breathing heavily into the space beside your neck, arms shaking with the sensation. You clutched at him more tightly, your breast shuddering against the warm plane of his chest, your legs shifting to let his sink between them. You felt full and complete and empty all at once. You felt like something small and fragile between his hands. He didn’t move, and when you opened your eyes he was looking down at you, eyes wide and fretful.

“Are you alright?” He asked, and you nodded, one arm untangling to stroke his cheek. He didn’t look reassured.

“I’m alright,” you told him, swallowing. The pain had faded, a soft, thrumming ache that echoed through your thighs, your stomach, the soft, wet heat of your folds spread around him. “I’m alright,” you said again, more softly. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“I didn’t want it to hurt at all,” he confessed, pained. Leaning down to kiss you, he hovered, nose brushing yours. “I want it to be-”

“Good?” You smile at the chagrin on his face. “It is.” You leaned up to meet him, pressed together in a soft, sweet kiss. His eyes fluttered open, hazy and wide. “Please,” you asked, rolling your hips awkwardly, feeling his stomach tighten, his shoulders hunch, the heat of his shaft move in you. “Please move,” you asked, voice faint with feeling. He did, pulling away, hips moving tentatively. You felt the air on your skin, all the places he’d been touching you suddenly cold, open. And then forward again, piercing right through you, solid and slick and soft. You groaned, arching back, fingers curling into Hector’s hair. It was good, all heat and motion and lights dancing along your nerves. You tugged him gently down, kissing him again as he shook. 

“Beautiful,” he gasped, eyes wet with the overwhelming sensation. “You’re so beautiful.” You could feel him like a line of heavy warmth, buried hilt-deep in your core, arched over your body, laid onto you like a blanket of softness and sunlight. Even your hands, curled tightly in his hair, weren’t cold in the winter air. He moved, just a little, and groaned into your hair, bent forward as if he’d been hit. “You feel-” he gasped, before his voice died. He panted into your ear, fists clenched in the sheets. You sighed, every muscle in your core stretched, flexing, around him. He was a welcome weight, your nerves settling from shocked pain into sweet, molten pleasure, and you shifted your hips just so. He moaned, little sighs and breaths slipping from his mouth as if he couldn’t help himself. 

“Hector,” you begged, arching up under him. “Please, Hector.” He drew out of your core again,the feeling less nervous, less new, and thrust back in with a smooth slide of his hips, the pressure, the force of his movement sparking a burning, insistent pleasure in the pit of your stomach, the tender barrier at the root of your core aching pleasantly. He ground his hips in further, pressing into you hip-to-hip, lips parted and breath gasping and deep. “Hector,” you repeated dazedly, and he fucked into you again, building a rhythm. It was slow, a steady, pleasurable rocking that pushed your breath from your chest with every thrust. 

He kept moving, kept thrusting, kept rutting his hips into you, a kind of wave that rose and fell with each slide of his cock, each brush of his chest over yours, your nerves still tingling and stung from his hands. He didn’t last much longer, but neither did you. His thrusts began to shudder, come quicker and deeper, until he buried himself to the root in you and let out a low, long cry. You could feel something spilling into you, thick and wet and uncomfortably heated. The twitch and pulse of his cock in your core, the way he ground his hips into yours, pressing deeply on a bundle of nerves and pleasure, the sound of him whispering words that sounded like love into the curve of your neck- all of it built, snapping the final, thin thread tying you to earth. Your pleasure unfurled, overtook you, a soft, numbing flood of feeling that took your voice, your breath, your tears. You convulsed, nerves overreacting, and he kissed the shell of your ear as he felt you shake beneath him. Tears streaked both of your faces, your lips were worn raw, your eyes low-lidded with exertion. He pulled out of you, a small flood of white and pink following him.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, worried, looking to you. 

“Doesn’t hurt,” you mumbled, reaching for him. He shook his head, grasping a corner of the sheets and using it, grimacing, to wipe his own seed from his cock. The same sheet collected the puddle of blood and come beneath you, then the remainder pooling at your entrance. He tossed it aside, pulling another blanket over you both. He kissed your forehead, curling up against you. 

“Beautiful,” he whispered again, face still shining with your tears and his own, and his fingers swept gently over your cheek. You nestled in closer, face pressed into his chest, and he laid his head on yours. Warmed by his bones and his skin and the feeling of his hands curled into your back, you slept peacefully. Your dreams were haunted by the sound of his breathing. Your lungs were full of the scent of woodsmoke and pine sap, snow and lingering magic and sweat. You drifted, dreaming of his touch, his face, dreamed the feeling of your blood and his spend pooling between your thighs as he whispered I love you into your throat. You woke at sunrise. You did not wake him. You lay in his bed, waiting for him to tell you to leave, to be discarded, left behind. 

When Hector woke, he asked you once more to stay, and you kissed him, your tears wet on his cheeks, his mouth. 

**Author's Note:**

> this google doc was called "Deflower the Forgemaster 2k18" so that's some fun trivia


End file.
